So what’s the story? Well, last Friday I took delivery of another lorryload of the well-rotted fruits of a horse’s bottom and bagged up 52 sacks with the aim of delivering it to a private customer the following Monday. I put a signed note on it stating “Private manure, hands off”, which also listed the number of sacks.

Then blow me down, Monday comes and there’s only 50 left.

Yes, it’s true, comrades, that I have been known to jump to conclusions before, but on this occasion, I knew exactly which way to head. Why? Because there were precious few folk around over that wintery weekend – except for one old bugger who’s always about, and this is exactly the sort of thing he would do. I saw him and he saw me before he skulked off, and he saw what I was doing as well.

I guess I’m going to have to be a bit coy about his identity (he most certainly won’t be reading this, given that the interweb is not something that is likely to clutter up his modest little brain any time this century). Established Hillbillies will know who I’m on about – one of the last of the “old guard”, a crap gardener, daft as the day is long, sometimes helpful and sociable but potentially hostile and difficult too.

So off I trotted in search of the missing dung. I peered over the barricades that surround his shanty town plot, and lo, there it was – a somewhat modest pimple amidst 10 poles of bugger all. Why on earth the silly old sod would want some in the first place remains the only mystery, given that his plot hasn’t seen an ounce of the stuff in decades, and two bags was neither here nor there.

I am now going to do something totally out of character and enlist the help of you, dear reader, in resolving the dilemma of what to do next. Below are the options, with value added judgements in brackets. Please feel free to comment, or email me direct if you prefer.

1. Report him to the Filth. (Entirely futile. You’re ’aving a larf).

2. Report him to the People’s Republic with a view to getting him kicked out. (Entirely futile. This will involve a row, and the republican guard don’t like rows because they cost time and money).

3. Nail him by the balls to the roof of his shed and then boot him off. (This has potential but the crummy old shed won’t take the weight of both of us).

4. Confront him politely with the allegation and point out that stealing from one’s fellows is very bad form, and stealing from the chief oberleutnant gruppenführer is fantastically stupid to boot. (He will deny it and turn nasty. Then what?)

5. Hop over the barricades and recover the missing dung, and then tell him where to shove it. (Well, if I’ve already recovered it, how can I tell him where to shove it?

6. Hop over the barricades, recover the missing dung and say nothing at all. (This has potential, especially if he then comes whining to me about someone having nicked his manure).

7. Do nothing at all and simply lament the fact that amongst a large number of decent, honest folk, we have nasty little shits as well. Such is life. (A bit on the sanguine, placid side for me, but I guess it has its merits).